


my head almost broke my heart

by 1001cranes



Category: Inception (2010), Mysterious Skin (2005)
Genre: Child Abuse, M/M, Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-05
Updated: 2011-08-05
Packaged: 2017-10-22 05:42:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1001cranes/pseuds/1001cranes





	my head almost broke my heart

Arthur rarely has to remind himself he isn't Neil anymore. People might not understand that. Might think Arthur's in some kind of denial, that he's just as cracked as Brian was, just as repressed. But take as many jaunts into your own subconscious as Arthur has; then accuse him of being repressed.

Arthur understands everything about Neil, every way they are different. The surface is the most obvious, the outer layer, the thinnest and most inconsequential, but still important in its differences. Neil was all about flesh on display, jeans and wifebeaters so worn they're almost see-through, t-shirts with the sleeves ripped off, advertising violence in the subtlest of ways - Arthur is about image, and control, and being perfectly closed off. It attracts it’s own kind of violence, but it doesn’t ask for it.

But the difference isn’t only in the wrappings, in the potential price of peeling the clothes away for the skin underneath. Cobb's malevolent psyche aside, for most people journeying into the subconscious can be enlightening, if not cathartic. The first few times Arthur went under – or was he still Neil, then? – before he learns to create rather than remember, before he learns to ignore his projections rather than concentrate on them, he imagines baseball fields, dugouts, the smell of leather, a blue house with a porch, a particular sort of couch. If, occasionally, a small tow-headed boy sits on a street corner and stares, it’s not the strangest projection the team has seen. Neil had a thin outer layer and a core of steel, corroding at the center. Arthur is more consistent, more dependably immalleable.

Now, pay attention - Arthur is not who Neil might have been. Arthur is a reaction to Neil, the same way Neil developed as a reaction to Coach. There’s no turning back the clock, there’s no changing decisions you’ve made. Because Arthur is a good point man, yes; Cobb wouldn’t keep him around if he wasn’t. But Arthur is best at understanding the nature of secrets, the meaning of experience. He has Brian to thank for that. He has _Neil_ to thank for that. He never thought inception couldn’t be done, but he was afraid of the consequences. Love is primal, sexuality is primal, and to change one experience – one relationship – could send you into a spiral you might never recover from. He knows as well as anyone. Arthur regrets the things Neil wasn’t able to have – a deeper relationship with Wendy, the ability to share the truth with Eric – but Arthur has things of his own, now.

| |

The team has finished their latest job without a hitch, a simple snatch-and-grab. Company A wants to know if Company B is any closer to improving on a biomechanical heart than they are. The head of Company B’s science department has an analytical mind – Arthur and Cobb play by the rules, slip under the radar while Eames impersonates the Company’s CEO, and the projections move quietly about their business – a cakewalk.

Arthur splurges on a five-star hotel afterwards. The job wasn’t exactly taxing, but the payout is nothing to scoff at. Eames breaks into the suite’s bar, pours himself a scotch, and throws himself on the bed so his terrible green argyle socks are visible. Arthur removes his tie and his watch, unbuttons his vest. Watches Eames watching him.

“Darling,” Eames says, “come _here_ ,” and Arthur slips off his shoes on the way.

Eames’ mouth is generous, and warm. He hasn’t shaved in days; the stubble catches on Arthur’s skin, on his throat and the calluses on his fingers. He’ll look undone tomorrow no matter what he wears, he’ll look debauched, he’ll avoid Ariadne’s eyes. The marks aren’t badges of honor, anymore; they’re warm secrets he wants to share only with Eames.

Eames rips open his shirt – Eames of the light fingers, of the quick hands, of the sure, measured, elegant, _distracting_ movements – scattering buttons across the room, buttons Arthur will diligently search out and reattach tomorrow. His hands are warm on Arthur’s skin; his words are proprietary, and filthy, and Arthur digs his fingers into Eames’ back, laughs and gasps in equal measure. He doesn't mind when Eames calls him slut, whore. They're just words, after all, and they didn't hurt when he was one, much less now. Coming from Eames they’re almost endearments, rolling off his tongue the same way darling and pet would. Arthur doesn’t mind being held down, he doesn’t mind being tied up. He’s let Eames into his mind, after all, given him permission to muck around with different faces, different names; what greater expression of trust is there?

“Sweetling,” Eames murmurs, “let’s play a game,” and Arthur can feel the gorge rise in his throat.

He makes it to the bathroom, barely. He throws up once, so hard he chokes on it, and then again. He sets his head against the cool edge of the toilet and wipes the spit from his mouth. You never really know what’s still creeping around in your unconscious, he thinks numbly, no matter how much you explore it. And even then you never know when it’s going to come back and bite you in the ass.

“Arthur,” he hears from behind him. Eames’ is a measured half-foot away – close enough for Arthur to feel the heat from his body, close enough to lean back into it if he wants. Far enough away to not feel threatened. There’s the rustle of fabric as Eames drapes Arthur’s jacket just over his shoulders. Arthur fumbles for the die tucked away into the inner pocket. Feels the weight of it in his hand. Rolls it against the wall and watches it fall four up. He didn’t think it was a dream, but it’s always comforting to know he was right. He’s always enjoyed that.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and turns around. “Eames –”

“Shut up,” Eames says tightly, and then hisses, “you bloody little _fool_ ,” and Arthur is in his arms and laughing wetly into his neck, where he fits so well, so amazingly well, he really thought it was a dream the first time.

“You know about Neil,” Arthur says, and feels the breath of Eames saying “yes” across the back of his neck. He never thought otherwise. Cobb does too, he assumes, and of course Saito. They’re all too smart to have never looked. They must know he changed his name, they know he changed who he was, but they couldn’t possibly know why.

Arthur’s mouth tastes like vomit, he’s shaking and clammy. His die is still clutched in his hand. He’s not Neil anymore, he reminds himself. But maybe it is time for him to step outside Neil’s bottomless black pit. Maybe he needs someone else to help him look into it.


End file.
